


unto the third and unto the fourth generation

by Roga



Category: Kings III (מלכים ג), The Secret Book of Kings: A Novel - Yochi Brandes
Genre: Book: 1 Kings, Foreign Language Source, Hebrew Bible - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-25
Updated: 2009-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/pseuds/Roga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ithiel tries not to think about Shlomam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unto the third and unto the fourth generation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miarr/gifts).



> Source material is Yochi Brandes's Biblically-set book, "Kings III". Will update the moment there's progress in translation.
> 
> To the lovely [](http://miarr.livejournal.com/profile)[**miarr**](http://miarr.livejournal.com/) for helping out in Purim! ♥. Thanks to [](http://sabrina-il.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sabrina-il.livejournal.com/)**sabrina_il** for the beta. Spoilery for the first third of the book.

In the morning, Ithiel wakes up just before dawn, drags his feet to the basin which the servants have refilled overnight, and washes his face with cold water, trying to wipe away thoughts of Shlomam's body dipping in the Gihon, rivulets of water flowing down the planes of his back, his waist, the backs of his legs. The image is imprinted on the back of Ithiel's eyelids; Shlomam's sunburned skin almost golden in the afternoon light, like Samson, pulling honey from the hive; like the mythic warrior heroes of the nations that surround them.

Distracting himself proves to be more difficult each day. When he's not thinking about Shlomam immersed in springwater, Ithiel's mind occupies itself with the way Shlomam's hands clench, lightly testing the weight of a spear, or the way his thighs go taut as he spurs his beloved Aner to a gallop, or the way his eyes crinkle when he shares a joke with Ithiel, like he can pick out Ithiel's laugh in the crowd and it's the only one he cares for. So Ithiel splashes water on his face again and reminds himself that there is nothing between him and Shlomam but friendship and, yes, love, but not that kind, and braces himself for another day of affection and companionship, and, on occasion, a fleeting moment of unfathomable torture.

Hadad works them harder and harder every day and Ithiel is grateful for the constant activity, and for the way Hadad drills discipline into their bodies, pushing their resolve to the limit, sunrise to sunset. Ithiel has trained himself not to respond to Shlomam's attention like a girl in love – not to stare, or sigh, or lean for too long into Shlomam's frequent touches, which are doled out with such ease it's a miracle the academy isn't infested with rumors about them both anyway. Not to flush, when he catches Shlomam looking at him unexpectedly – the one curse of the fair complexion Ithiel inherited along with his red hair, although he doubts his renowned ancestor ever let himself do anything as uncalculated as _blushing_.

And sometimes, not responding to Shlomam is an even greater challenge than Hadad's tyrannical regime: when they are assigned fighting partners and Shlomam wrestles him to the ground, pins him down with his knees and his palms and his chest, panting with exertion and grinning with delight at his victory. And Ithiel feels the weight on him, looks up nearly blinded by the sun and by Shlomam's beaming face, and it takes all of Ithiel's willpower not to give in to the urge to strain his neck and close the distance to press their lips together, to flip them over and hold Shlomam against the ground and press hot kisses to his mouth, his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, use his tongue and his hands to make Shlomam buck and moan, make him realize what he's missing, living his life of near abstinence and longing for a woman he cannot have instead of _this, here, now_.

"Your heart is pounding," Shlomam will laugh above him, real, not a fantasy. "Work out getting a bit much for you?"

And Ithiel will close his eyes for no longer than a count to one, and force himself to grin at the challenge, catching Shlomam off guard with a twist and a shove and defeating him in the next round.

He dreams about leaving, sometimes. He has no possessions of his own, other than his weapons, horse and shield; it would be so easy, to go down to Egypt and _live_, free. He is well connected enough to live there suitably – he is a prince after all, although the title has scant meaning in Jerusalem, and he knows Hadad's family will be accommodating, if he requests their help. He might do well there for his kingdom, even, there are precedents – before Pharaoh and his hardened heart, there was Joseph, who had lightened it. Joseph, the father of Shlomam's tribe which he takes so much pride in, though he tries to hide it. And once again his thoughts lead him back to Shlomam, which is exactly why Ithiel needs to leave.

He almost does it once. When the boys tease Shlomam about his tendencies one night, when he refuses to participate in their whoring competitions – just play, because there can be no speculation about a man like Shlomam, not really – it is all Ithiel can do not to flee the scene, to go back to his chambers and say farewell to his mother and his mother's daughters and _go_. But his legs fail him, and he stands frozen in his spot, trying to become invisible as the boys continue their mocking, unable to raise his voice even to defend Shlomam, let alone deflect from himself by joining in. When he finally lifts his head, Shlomam is looking at him intently, and suddenly something flares in his eyes and Ithiel knows that Shlomam _knows_.

Shlomam's eyes grow wide and panicked, and Ithiel doesn't dare move; he feels like a deer caught in front of a lion, and has no idea how Shlomam will react except that Shlomam is confused enough about his own identity that he can either punch him or kill him and Ithiel longs for the Egyptian sands so badly he can almost feel them scratching his skin in the wind.

That's when one of the boys says something, and Ithiel hasn't the faintest clue what it was but it finally makes Shlomam snap, like a caged tiger suddenly unleashed, and Ithiel acts before he thinks. Which might have been a mistake, he thinks a minute later, just before his vision fades into darkness.

Ithiel wakes up to a piercing pain in his left leg and the feel of a cool, wet cloth on his forehead. The room is dark, but he knows he's not alone; he can feel the warmth of the body sitting by his bedside, hear the breaths coming in an even rhythm he can't help but recognize. Cold fingertips touch his head, gently brushing the hair from his eyes.

Ithiel opens his eyes. In a moment, the fingertips are gone.

Shlomam is looking down at him. For the first time in too long to remember, his expression is impossible to read. "Welcome back," he says quietly.

Ithiel wants to speak, but his throat is dry. "Thank you for that," he rasps.

Shlomam glances at his leg guiltily. "I'm sorry, I'm—" he meets Ithiel's eyes again. "I didn't mean to..."

"It's all right." Ithiel tries to smile, but he still remembers the look on Shlomam's face before – sees his deep frown now, feels the absence of his fingers. "What they said. About you." Ithiel swallows. "I know you're not."

"That's not—" Shlomam hesitates.

Ithiel waits a few moments to see if Shlomam completes the sentence. When he doesn't, Ithiel sighs. He can make this easier on them both. "I've decided to travel south for a while. To Egypt. We never have enough trade delegates at the palace, the King will be pleased." The King probably would be pleased, Ithiel reflects, if he remembered who Ithiel was.

Shlomam is silent. There's an anxious curve to his shoulders, and pain in his eyes, and God, Ithiel thinks, he is going to miss him _so much_—

"Don't go," Shlomam says, right before kissing him.

Ithiel's heart jumps to a start, suddenly racing in a way that _can't_ be healthy for his injury but he can't control it, can't really think at all, can barely breathe with Shlomam's mouth pressing against his, gentle but sure. Shlomam leans in harder, and Ithiel doesn't quite whimper because it's not a princely thing to do, but then, to be honest about it, Shlomam is regal enough for the both of them.

Shlomam's thumb grazes his cheek, coarse, and softer than the sands of Egypt can ever be. "Ithiel," he breathes.

Ithiel stays.


End file.
